Renewal of Faith
by Sabress
Summary: Sometimes our greatest obstacle in the way of our love for another is ourselves. (Because the rift between Peter and Olivia in S.5 is KILLING ME.)
1. Chapter 1

_How many times do I have to lose you, to keep you for good?_

The question rang in her head, over and over like a clanging bell. She hadn't been able to answer him then, not in the way he wanted anyway, just dodged his pleading eyes and mumbled something about wrapping her head around everything. God bless Walter, he'd walked up at the perfect moment and cut short what was becoming an incredibly painful, awkward conversation.

She looks down at her hands, tracing creases, scars, remembering.

_A cocky, confident young man approaching her in a Baghdad hotel, reading her like a Vegas card dealer and giving her a once over all in the same glance._

_Flirty banter amid birthday wishes and prolonged goodnights._

_Phone calls and phone calls and nights at the bar, coy glances and card tricks and dares._

_Soft touches, long embraces, alluded feelings._

_You belong with me._

She smiles, remembering each moment in crystal detail. And then she begins to remember the other things…the things that she had long since forgiven but never forgotten, that still made her chest bind and left her head in a storm.

_She wasn't me._

_Throwing away bed sheets, clothes, little mementos that raked like nails._

_Watching him step into a monstrous machine that might take him for good._

_The day he walked into Fringe division, announcing he knew her….that fuzzy line between her memories, and those of another version of her, lost somewhere to time._

_I did those things with my Olivia._

_I know it's you._

_After all we've been through; I will not lose you again, Olivia._

_I never want to lose you again. _

Her head starts to hurt, and she slouches lower in the lab chair. The amber throws the moonlight back in a faint golden glow across the walls and floor. She's thankful for the quiet this time of night; the others have taken up residence in the old cafeteria – Walter, to his glee, discovered the soft serve machines still work and insisted they bed there from now on – and she is alone, accompanied only by the soft hum of a few electronics. On a whim, she meanders to her old office, picks the lock and settles into the chair (for being over twenty years old, she's amazed the damn thing is still holding up, let alone fairly comfortable – the thought gives her a moment of ironic humor thinking of her own twenty year hiatus). Head still aching, wishing she could stop her thoughts from racing, she pulls open a crusty desk drawer, and lo and behold – a bottle of Irish whiskey still sits faithfully within. She's not sure what twenty years can do to an open bottle of whiskey (either age it to further delight, or make it something akin to poison), but she chances a sip anyway. A coughing fit moments later has her leaning decidedly toward the latter, and she tosses the bottle in the dusty trash bin. She finds an old rag in another drawer, and wipes away a thick layer of dust from the top of the desk, revealing the smooth wood, and lays her cheek against the cool surface. How many nights did she lay like this, so many years ago? Pouring over case files, nursing coffee and hard liquor in turn, dozing off from sheer exhaustion, only to wake half way through the night and barely drive herself home safely to bed…only to be woken early to start the whole routine again?

She's sure those long nights aged her well enough. The amber probably made up for an already accelerated process. She feels her eyelids growing heavy as she entertains the menial logistics of chronologically being over fifty.

A soft rap on the doorframe jolts her back from sleep, and she blinks away the blurry haze to find Peter standing in the doorway. (Another familiar sight from a bygone era, she thinks.) "Liv?"

"Hey." She leans back in the chair and crosses her arms – she shifts uncomfortably as she becomes aware of a jutting spring that hasn't withstood the test of time so gracefully – and watches him carefully step into the small space. "Something up?"

"Other than you? Nah." He grins halfheartedly at her and she smiles back, relaxes a little. "Just noticed you'd wandered off somewhere. Wanted to make sure everything is ok?"

She nods silently, feeling the double meaning behind his question, and reminded all too quickly of the last one she evaded.

_How many times do I have to lose you, to keep you for good?_

He doesn't ask it again, but its sitting there, white and very big in the corner of the small room. She knows what she wants to ask, _Did you really ever lose me?_ But she knows and he knows it happened. She left. She chose and he chose they both felt the loss. And they feel it now more than ever, since fate threw them back together into a strange future with a grown daughter who was barely learning how dandelions grow only a few weeks ago…and suddenly it becomes clear to her. They didn't just lose each other.

They lost a _lifetime_.

The sudden anguish must be clear on her face, because he rushes over immediately, eyes full of concern. "Olivia?"

She barely hears him, barely _sees_ him as she imagines all the things that have gone by. Etta starting school, prom, young loves come and gone, questions never answered and the uncertain first steps into adulthood, becoming the woman she is today…Sundays in bed reading the paper and sipping coffee, swapping kisses in the early morning sun, Walter's extravagant breakfasts, Peter's piano serenades…

Realistically she knows many of these things would not have played out normally, after the invasion began. Normal just doesn't seem to like her very much. But who was there on Etta's first day of school? Who was there the first time her heart was broken? Who was there to tuck her in at night, every night, and tell her that someday everything was going to be ok?

By now she is biting her fist, hard, fighting back tears that have already begun pricking at her eyes. Peter wraps her in a careful hug, still not sure how close is too close, and rubs her shoulder gently, murmuring softly to her. She sinks back down onto the desk, burying her head in her arms and sighs away the sobs that are threatening to work to the surface.

Peter pulls away, gently rubbing her back as she struggles to compose herself. His fingers stroke through a lock of hair, and she remembers every gentle caress, every strong, warm embrace that ever kept her from harm.

She lifts her eyes, slowly, to his, pain and a thousand apologies etched into every fleck of warm hazel. He pulls her close without a word, wrapping her in those same strong arms, and she buries her head into the warmth of his shoulder.

_I never want to lose you again._

_You belong with me._

_How many times do I have to lose you, to keep you for good?_

She wakes to the same hazy overhead lights, head resting gently on Peter's shoulder. She doesn't remember settling on the floor with him, but here they are, backs resting against the wall, his arm around her and head just leaning on hers. She moves to gently untangle herself, his head lolling back to the wall as he groans something about the time.

"Early. Peter.."

"Nngh..yeah?" His eyes droop open and he smiles at her, then to mock suspicion. "Why did you let me fall asleep against the filing cabinet?"

She smiles back as she stands, "Good for your posture. Coffee?"

"Posture my ass. I'm gonna be walking like I got kicked by a horse after sleeping like that. And yes, coffee. Absolutely coffee." She takes his hand and helps him up, chuckling at his groans and expletives. She's out of the office and halfway across the lab, Peter hot on her heels, when he stops suddenly. "Olivia?"

She turns back and the questions are clear in his eyes.

"We'll talk later…ok?"

He just nods his acknowledgement, some disappointment and some relief revealing themselves in equal measure, and follows her from the lab to meet with the others.


	2. Chapter 2

Walter insists on making a big breakfast (it's Tuesday – Peter fought with him for ten minutes about wearing clothes as long as his granddaughter is present) and bustles about the cafeteria kitchen humming bits and pieces of various tunes. Olivia takes a quiet seat beside Etta while Peter and Astrid chase Walter about the kitchen, chiding him about safety and keeping his clothes on.

Olivia nurses a piping hot cup of coffee, black, watching the antics in the kitchen with a small smile.

"Quite the group we've got here, huh mom."

She laughs quietly, catching her daughter's eye. "You'd never guess at the chaos in the world, just watching those three. Especially Walter. For him being the supposedly crazy one, he's probably kept the rest of us sane all these years."

Etta smiles back, wistful glint in her eye. "I remember – barely – spending time with him when I was little. He always had some kind of candy or treat for me."

"Mmhm, and your father was always telling him not to spoil your appetite. And the little toys he'd make for you – Peter and I were always checking to make sure they weren't going to _explode_ or something like that." She's grinning broadly now, eyes alight with the memories. Walter was so good with Etta, the same way he'd been with Ella. He loved being a grandfather, loved spoiling her…he was ecstatic the day she was born, had run across town loudly announcing to whoever would listen that he was a grandpa. Astrid had to track him down in Chinatown later that day and bring him home, but even being lost for two hours hadn't put a damper on his excitement. It only took a week before half of Boston knew that the Bishops had a new baby girl.

"He was so good with you, Etta," she murmurs. "He was so proud to be your grandfather."

Etta nods quietly. "I think…I think he's still getting used to the fact that I'm an adult now."

There's a bitter edge to Olivia's laugh. "We all are. You were…so little. The last time I –we – saw you. We're all trying to wrap our heads around it. Even Astrid."

They are both quiet for a moment, so many things that they want to ask brimming under the surface. "Have you…seen Ella and your aunt?"

"Not for a while. They're fine, if that's what you're wondering. I try not to see them too often because I don't want to risk them getting caught up in all of this; The Resistance. I don't want to put them in danger."

Olivia nods her understanding. "How are they…these days?"

"Well…Ella is married. Two boys, Jakob and Dylan. Aunt Rachael is living in Cohasset now. When this is all said and done, you should go visit her. She'll want to see you."

"…I will." _Little Ella? Married?_ Of course she would be, it had been over twenty years. But in Olivia's mind, Ella was still a young girl, fawning over her little cousin, putting on makeup and talking fervently about boys.

_We lost so much time…_

"Mom?" There's an uncertainty to Etta's tone; they both know she's about to ask something Olivia probably won't want to answer.

Olivia braces herself. "Hmm?"

"Are you and dad…are you ok?"

_So even Etta can see it_. She runs a hand through her hair, gripping the porcelain mug tighter. "Peter and I…um…we just have some things to talk about."

Etta just nods, looking concerned and thoroughly unconvinced.

_Our family got a second chance._

Olivia takes a deep breath, watching the ripples in her coffee from each exhale. She knows what she owes her daughter: an explanation. The truth. But before she can bear that, she needs to make peace, with herself and her guilt. Every moment since she laid eyes on Peter, on Etta, she's felt it like a weight in her chest, suffocating her slowly. She thought she had felt every kind of pain imaginable, but even now a new, unfamiliar sting bites at her heart.

She knows she is doing what she has always done; putting up a wall, pushing away the ones she loves. Trying to protect them by distancing herself, and protecting herself in turn. But this isn't Rachel and Ella anymore; she can't hide behind protocol and "classified". She owes Peter and Etta more than that.

So as Etta stands to grab a plate of food, Olivia reaches for her hand, taking it firmly in her own.

"Etta, I need you to take me somewhere."


	3. Chapter 3

_You thought I went back because of my strength._

She was doing it again, he knew. The same thing she had done since the day he met her; torturing herself with undue guilt. Burdening herself with ghosts of the past. Carrying a cross that should never have been hers to bear.  
Because they didn't talk about it.

And that had torn them apart. He had held on to a fragile prayer, hoping against hope that they would find their little girl (he had refused to acknowledge the very real possibility that they may very well find her…the way Olivia was sure they might) and he had pushed and fought and dredged on.  
All the while, unknown to him, Olivia was tearing herself apart inside with reality and blame. And they didn't talk about it.

Peter stares out into a cold morning, watching the sun trickle over the treetops like a font of liquid gold, and thinks that he should have seen it in her eyes. Should have seen the doubt and fear darkening those bright pools of hazel, even as she nodded her head listlessly while he spouted plans over warm apple pie. Should have turned to see what she kept glancing at, over his shoulder, that made her sink a little further each moment into the worn diner seat.  
Should have asked her, the day she told him she was leaving for New York, the question that was ringing in his head as he watched her walk away.

_How many times to I have to lose you, to keep you for good?_

He reaches toward his collar, feeling the small, cold chain there, and the little weight it carries. He couldn't look at it, then; the constant reminder would have killed him inside. But he couldn't bring himself to put it away, either; he refused to believe she would be out of his life for good (they had been through far too much for that to even be possible; somehow, innately he knew the separation was only temporary). So he'd found a small chain and that was where it rested, right over his heart, where she would always be, even if both were out of sight.

_That's all in the past, now_, he thinks, _there's time to make it right._

Peter turns at the characteristic shuffling stride behind him, greets his father with a nod and a smile. "Walter."

"Enjoying the brisk air, son? I've always adored mornings such as this, very refreshing. Though not quite as stimulating as a dip in the Atlantic in January. Coney Island Polar Bear Club, in my younger days. Excellent for building virility!"

"I think I'll stick to eating healthy and exercise. Vastly less hypothermic. Although these food pills of the future are giving me some serious doubts."

"Ghastly things, aren't they? Food was meant to be _savored! _If human beings were meant to eat tasteless calories for nutrition, we would be eating grass like the cows."

"Spoken like a true foodie. And to think, diet food companies were just starting to get the idea, and then they come out with these things." He eyes a pill suspiciously – carrots, says Etta – and tucks it away. He's never been much of a health food junkie, but honestly, he'd rather have an actual carrot to crunch on. Walter mutters something about abominations against dietary evolution, and Peter chuckles his agreement.

They stand like this for a while, father and son, bantering back and forth watching the sun rise.

"Did Olivia and Henrietta say where they were going? We do still need to find the next tape."

"They just said they wouldn't be long. Something 'Liv needed to get."

Walter is quiet for a moment, watching his son intently. "Have you…spoken with Olivia? Since we were released from the amber?"

"Of course I've talked to her, I haven't been mute since we got out." It's a pathetic attempt to dodge the question, but he's hoping Walter will get distracted by something.

Walter just smiles knowingly, watching the leaves turn color in the orange glow of a new morning. "Did you know, son, the theory that plants grow better when spoken to is absolutely true? Belly and I tested it ourselves, many years ago. Given equal variables of nutrient rich soil, sunlight, and water, those plants that were spoken to grew seventy-five percent hardier than those deprived of conversation. Quite an intriguing study, really."  
With this, Walter shambles away toward the car, humming quietly to himself.

Peter smiles to himself, watching the same rusty sunlight spread across the road before them. Point taken.

_Thank you, Walter._


End file.
